


The Ends of a Goodnight Song

by screamingarrows



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, and she loves clint very much, natasha is a fierce protective bear, set right after the avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint trusts her, trusts her to keep him safe. In the end, that's all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ends of a Goodnight Song

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [O Fim de uma Canção de Boa Noite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436761) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



_His body acts on instinct when he feels someone come up behind him. The bow is pulled taunt in his hands before he even turns, a target in his peripherals. He blinks._

(Tasha.)

_He’s awake, paralyzed inside his body. He watches as his own hands attack her- his body dodging the only person he’s only fought once before. He knows she’s holding back, he wishes he could do her the same favor. Her fight is strictly defense, even as he aims to kill._

(Stop. Please.)

_She dashes away from him. He shoots. He misses._

(I missed!)

_They’re close. She grabs his bow, refuses to let go. A wild elbow to the face spins him away and she dives into a crouch. He pulls a knife out of his pocket, a sharp smile on his face. This one fights back and it’s deliciously challenging._

(No.)

_She has his arm in a lock, pointing his own knife at his throat. He grabs her hair, the soft curls feel familiar but he pushes past the sensation and knots the red in his fingers. She shakes her head, tries to dislodge his hands from her hair but he won’t let go until she does. They stare at each other and then she does something unexpected._

_She bites him. He drops the knife and she lets go. He pushes her away, grabs the falling knife with his other hand and spins. She doesn’t see his jab and doesn’t have enough time to flinch away from the blade before it catches her side._

(Tasha!)

_She shouts and Clint watches helplessly as he pulls back the knife and rams it into her stomach. Her knees buckle under the abrupt pain. He can taste her pain like it’s something sweet in the air and he twists. Her arms snake out to grip his shoulders for balance and he lets his free hand wrap around one of her arms, the smooth skin feels wrong under his calloused fingers._

_“Clint,” she gasps. He jerks the blade up to feel her shudder against him._

_“Clint.” A flat hiccupped gasp. “Clint wake up.”_

(Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!)

_His hands are covered in her blood, staining his skin. Her weight is too much to bare and he gently lowers her body down to the ground. She gasps, body shaking. Her fingers dig at his shoulders but the pressure is weak, too weak._

_“Clint.” It’s her final word before he jerks out the knife and plunges it into her chest._

(No!)

 

 

“Clint!”

Clint shoots upright, his eyes fly open and he squints around the darkened room. He sees a figure at his side and he jerks, pushing the figure and rolling off the other side of the bed in one fluid motion. His fingers leave a dark imprint on his sheets; a dark handprint rests on the wall.

Blood.

Bile rises in Clint’s throat. No, no it was just a dream. It had to have been a dream-

“Barton,” the light from the lamp on his table flickers on and Clint blinks against the sudden brightness. His eyes take in the illuminated form of Natasha, standing uneasily by his bed, a splotch of blood on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she says. He focuses on her words, stares at her lips. “It was just a dream, Clint. I’m safe. You’re safe. It was a dream.”

Clint looks down at his hands and sees lacerations cover his palms, deep enough for blood to still be falling freely. He’s hypnotized by the sight; after so much he’s done, it seems fair that he has to bleed too.

“You were holding a knife,” Natasha says. Clint flinches, wonders how much of his dream was a dream, when she continues. “In your nightmare. I had stepped out to get some water.”

Her voice is soft, a hard emotion in her eyes when she says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you.”

No. No, no,  _no_.  _Tasha_ shouldn’t be the one apologizing. He should be; he should be groveling at her feet, begging to be forgiven.

“No, this isn’t your responsibility,” his voice comes out hard and he flinches away as if it had been directed at  _him_. Natasha sits down carefully and looks away from him into the empty SHIELD quarters.

“Well, it’s not yours either,” her voice is soft when it finally comes and Clint blinks back sudden tears. They sting his eyes like poison and he feels guilt weigh heavily in his chest.

“Tasha-”

“Will you let me see your hand?” She asks, interrupting whatever he was about to say. Clint looks down at his hands again. Blood has dripped down onto his pajama bottoms and he wonders why they don’t sting. After everything, he deserves a little bit of discomfort doesn’t he?

“Please, Clint.”

Natasha doesn’t ask and she sure as hell doesn’t beg. Clint stands and holds out his hands accordingly. They don’t shake but part of him wishes they would. Natasha moves toward him slowly and wraps her slender hand around his wrists, gently tugging him around the bed.

She looks at his hands, turning them over in the soft light.

“You cut yourself pretty deep,” Natasha murmurs. Clint stiffens, hopes he doesn’t need to go to medical because they’ve got a fuck-ton to deal with right now because of him.

“Don’t worry,” she says, seemingly reading his mind. “Nothing I can’t take care of myself. Here, let’s get something on it.”

She pulls him to the bathroom, walking backwards to keep an eye on his face. “You remember that mission in Korea?”

Clint blinks and nods, wordlessly.

Natasha allows a smile to grace her lips. “You didn’t know what Sannakji was but you thought the name was fun.”

Clint remembers that mission. They were undercover as married, Natasha’s hair had been dyed platinum and his had been raven black. She’d looked like a fucking goof ball blonde and she had no problem pointing out what an asshole he looked like with black hair.

“Fucking octopus,” he murmurs. God, he’d been so drunk when he’d ordered that and Natasha had dared him to eat the whole thing. He was sick for a day and a half after, Fury had been  _pissed_  but it was totally worth the forty bucks Natasha’d bet him.

They’re sitting in the bathroom now, she’s on the tub and he’s on the toilet seat. Natasha brings up more highlights from the Korean trip, barely allowing him any moments of silence.

It’s not until she’s wrapping up his now-disinfected hands that he realizes that was intentional. If she fills his head with her words he has no room for anything else.

“Come on,” Natasha urges. Clint stands and follows Natasha back into his room. They pause, look at his bloody sheets, and Natasha turns to him.

“Strip,” she orders and marches to his dresser. He obeys without a thought and when she has a fresh set of pajamas he’s in his boxers. She tosses the bedclothes to him and he dresses quickly.

“My room,” Natasha informs him as she walks to the door and looks out into the hall. Clint feels gratitude welling up in his throat at the orders Nat’s giving him. It’s easy, following her. He’d been doing it for years now and it’s oddly reassuring now.

He stays silent as they walk down the hall to her room. She slides into the right door and pushes it shut behind him, locking it hard enough for it to be audible. Her room is cool, so much cooler than his. He can barely rest in his room without feeling smothered by heat but Natasha’s always ran a little hotter than most and he feels like this change will be welcomed.

Natasha’s hands are gentle on his back as they guide him expertly to her bed in the dark. He climbs under the chilled sheets and Natasha doesn’t hesitate before sliding in after him. She curls around him and he shifts to his side, wiggling his back to her chest.

One little known fact about Clint was that he loved being little spoon and now, now being wrapped up in Natasha’s strong, capable arms, shielded from anything and everything was a relief so sharp it has his breath shuddering in his chest.

“Easy,” Natasha murmurs and rubs her fingers over his chest. He nods and settles deeper against her. Her arms tighten and she curls her legs up under him, forming to him in every way possible. They lay like that for what feels like an hour before Natasha is gently kissing the base of Clint’s neck.

“Clint,” she says softly, a warning. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

Clint has to make a conscious effort to relax his body. He stares at the blank wall in front of him. Natasha rubs his stomach; the muscles there clench and loosen under her fingers. It’s soothing and Clint’s beginning to doze when she starts singing softly in Russian.

He doesn’t understand the language as well as he wants too, but he recognizes the old lullaby as something Natasha sings for him every time he’s ill. His eyes droop heavy as the words rumble through his back and rest in his chest like a warm spot under his heart.

He trusts Natasha to have his back- against enemies, against SHIELD, against aliens and that fucker Loki; against the nightmares that are sure to come. He trusts her to be okay, to make sure he’s okay, and his eyes drift closed on the last note of the first lullaby.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon who asked "Prompt: Clint Barton after being possessed by Loki. Clintasha maybe?" 
> 
> I say Clintasha always. 
> 
> Feel free to check out my tumblr: screamingarrows.tumblr.com :)


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